


The Five of Wands (Reversed)

by logical_crysis



Series: The Tarot Table [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anxious Lance (Voltron), Depictions of hopelessness, Depressed Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Keith cares SO MUCH, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, M/M, Mentions of past suicide, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Self-Esteem Issues, but that's what Keith is there for, can be read as platonic or romantic, self-sabotage, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logical_crysis/pseuds/logical_crysis
Summary: “Lance.” Keith pushed himself up, looked more directly at him, and Lance jolted out of his thoughts just in time to turn away. He pretended it was just to take another bite. But the food was going cold and the taste grew bitter and bland on his tongue. He chewed slowly as Keith watched him with a frown.“It’s okay to not be okay.”The comment was so out of the blue that Lance dropped his fork and turned to Keith, brows furrowed. They hadn’t been talking about that at all, and Lance was sure that he had done well to act normal. His room wasn’t messy and his grades hadn’t really dropped that much and he still wore his shorts and T-shirts when it was hot so what gives? “What do you mean? I’m fine.”“But it’s okay if you aren’t.”
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), or - Relationship
Series: The Tarot Table [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037778
Comments: 11
Kudos: 91





	The Five of Wands (Reversed)

Lance always felt guilty when he turned down plans with his friends. He was the social butterfly, the flirt, loverboy, he was _Lance_ . He was all about going out and having fun! But sometimes he just _couldn’t_ , and he would make up some excuse about having an essay due that he procrastinated, or that he had a headache, or he had to go home to babysit his niece and nephew for the weekend. 

They always understood, and they never pushed him, and he was grateful for that. But he hated lying to them. He hated that he didn’t want to spend time with them, hated that it kept getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning and go to class and do all of his work that just kept piling up and up but when he had time to do it he just stared at the ceiling and did _nothing_.

And as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling while the clock ticked by, knowing his friends were out having their weekly diner dinner without him while he was here, not doing his work, he found himself reminiscing on his old highschool days. Those days where going to the guidance counselor was considered worse than getting sent to the principal's office, because the guidance counselor meant you were a weird mental freak and the principal’s office meant you were a badass rebel that everyone wanted to be. Asking for help was taboo, and no one wanted to be the next target for the rumors and teasing. So no one asked for help, Lance included, even though they had all of the resources and networking and support from the staff and counselor that they could ever need. 

It’s not like Lance didn’t have connections and resources now. There was a free counselor on campus always open to talk with an appointment, and he knew multiple professors that would be more than supportive if he were really struggling. Shiro, a friend he had met through Matt (who was the brother to Pidge whom he’d met through Hunk whom he’d grown up with-) had a degree in psychology and multiple mental health certifications and was starting a job in the spring as a therapist for children. Lance knew that he would definitely help him, free of charge obviously, if he would ask.

But really, as he was lying there, the crack in the ceiling getting harder and harder to see as the sun set - when had the sun set? - he didn’t think he was in the position to go asking for help. He hurt, sure, was unmotivated and procrastinated and spent a lot of time napping now and came up with more and more excuses to get out of seeing his friends which made him hate himself-

He hurt, but he should be able to handle it. People had it worse than him.

Lance had a very good home life, growing up. He had wonderful, supportive parents who loved each other and never fought. He had a brother and two sisters and had good relationships with all of them. They camped out in the backyard and pulled harmless pranks and convinced their parents to get a dog and then a puppy and they were both loving pets that had never had any complications. He did well in school, never dealt with bullying. He wasn’t sick very often and when he was it never kept him home longer than three days. He made great friends and even greater friends in college. His parents were financially able to help him with his college bills. He had never dealt with a close family member’s death.

Lance had a million people that would tell him he lived an incredibly fortunate life, and he would never disagree with them. His life was great! 

He just wished he could wake up in the morning and not be waiting for the day to be over already so he could go back to bed.

As a junior in college, Lance had learned a lot. He knew he always needed to check his bank account before he went out for food, knew to take advantage of the cafeteria when it was open because it wasn’t _really_ that bad and it saved a lot of money, knew making friends was both easy and hard, and he knew that classes and homework took up a lot of time and effort. 

He was also becoming increasingly aware that he may have a problem. As he answered his phone after the fourth ring and told whoever was on the other end that he didn’t feel well and was going to bed early, curled on his side while the light faded outside and the room darkened, laying over the covers because he just didn’t want to move, Lance knew he had a problem. But what was he supposed to do about it? 

In the three years that he and his friends had grown closer, he never once mentioned that he had depression. Because he didn’t, not officially. His parents weren’t really in the therapy-and-medication mental health category; they were more if-we-find-out-you-hurt-yourself-we’re-sending-you-to-rehab type. It wasn’t very encouraging. So Lance was never diagnosed, and he never sought out the counselor, and he never got help, and in the process he taught himself that help was for the people on tv who crashed their cars and took a knife to their arms and had public mental breakdowns where they pulled out their hair. But Lance wasn’t like those people on tv. And it just felt like it was too late now, to ask for help. That once he graduated high school, once he was an adult, it was too late to get diagnosed and get therapy or whatever, because he wasn’t a kid anymore so he should be able to push through it.

Lance wasn’t always sure where he was pushing through to, though. In his head there was nothing. No fancy houses or dream jobs or picture-perfect children or spouse. Lance couldn’t even see the classes he’d be taking next semester, let alone plan for a career and make a family and find a place to move to. He barely wanted to be alive, why would he ever put effort into planning a life he wasn't sure he would live to be in?

Yeah, maybe that’s the thought that should have made him concerned. But he didn’t ever have a single day where he didn’t at least briefly think about dying, so it wasn't new. The thought had integrated itself into his brain, and any inconvenience could draw it out, let it eat at him, devour him until his frustration boiled over and he quit whatever he was doing just to lay and hate himself more and wish it would be over.

And that was another reason he never told anyone how bad he felt. He knew he’d be sent to a mental institution if he ever told a counselor or a therapist or even one of his friends that cared too much for him and would report him for his own good. But Lance _knew_ that wouldn’t help. He wasn’t a danger to himself or anyone else. He never wanted to hurt himself. He was too scared to ever try to kill himself. He wanted to die but that was _different_ than wanting to kill yourself and for some fucking reason _no one_ understood that and it hurt him even more. 

So, there he was, laying in his bed, curled up in the dark at 8:09 in the evening listening to his phone buzz on the mattress beside him but not having the energy to answer, schoolwork unfinished and guilt eating away at his insides. 

Someone knocked on his door, then, and he furrowed his brows as he sat up slowly to stare at it. They knocked again, and Lance was tempted not to open it and pretend he wasn’t there, but on the third insistent round of knocks he forced himself up and off the bed, his limbs aching with how long he had been lying there. He shuffled his socked feet across the floor. “One second,” he called when they knocked again, and Lance took a moment to breathe, to smile, and then he opened the door.

And his smile fell.

“Keith?”

“Lance,” he breathed, and Lance took a moment to watch his chest rise and fall with heavy pants, leaning his weight against the doorframe. Like he had been running.

“Have you been running?”

Keith shook his head. “The elevator is broken.” And, oh, yeah, Lance forgot about that. Walking up seven flights of stairs didn’t make it any easier to go to class in the mornings. “I brought you some food from the diner,” he said, and held up a bag with a to-go box in it Lance hadn’t noticed before. His chest felt heavy when he pulled his eyes back to Keith’s. 

“Oh,” Lance said, very intelligently. He reached out and gingerly took the bag from him. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“I know. Hunk said he wasn’t sure you had eaten today, so…” He trailed off, and neither of them would meet the other’s eyes. 

They stood in the doorway for a few awkward moments, until Lance invited Keith in before he had the chance to convince himself not to. Keith grinned at him, and Lance had all of four seconds to feel self-conscious about his half-clean room before Keith kicked off his boots and fell face first into Lance’s bed.

Lance chuckled. “Long day, Samurai?” Keith grunted from the bed as Lance set to pulling out the food Keith had brought him. It was still hot, and Lance could already smell what it was.

Keith turned his head just enough to talk without having his voice muffled by the mattress. “We weren’t sure what you were feeling today, so we just got what you usually get.” Lance’s heart fluttered as he opened the box and took a deep whiff.

“Blueberry pancakes and chocolate syrup.” He sang, popping the fork out of the plastic wrapping, and sat down on the bed next to Keith. “You even got me the sausage links!”

“Because you don’t like the sausage patties.”

Lance grinned. “You sure know the way to a man’s heart, Samurai.” Keith hummed in response. “Thank you, by the way. I know I already said that but thank you.” 

Keith pushed himself to lay on his side, propping his head up with a hand on his cheek and an elbow on the bed. He watched Lance as he eagerly dug into his food, and Lance wondered how obvious it was that he had forgotten to eat today. After classes and homework and...well, the undetermined amount of time he spent lying in bed doing nothing...yeah, he didn’t really make time for meals. “You’re welcome, Lance.” Lance gave him a close-mouthed grin, fork still hanging out of his mouth from his last bite. Keith laughed. “Chew your food, you’re an animal.”

Lance almost choked, he gasped so fast. “Did you just quote _Matilda_ at me?” 

“Maybe,” Keith replies, and he’s not looking at Lance now but he can _hear_ that smirk in his voice. 

He stared at Keith for a few seconds. “Okay, Mr. I-keep-vital-information-from-my-friends-like-the-fact-that-I’ve-watched-Matilda.” Lance stabbed a sausage link with his fork and points it accusingly at Keith as he chuckled. “Tell me about your long day.” Because Lance liked having Keith there, he did, as long as they kept the conversation away from him. Lance wasn’t sure he would be able to steer the conversation away from his recent get-together absences and he was not ready to talk about it, not to Keith or anyone else.

But of-fucking-course Keith can’t talk about himself to save his life. “Just one of those long days, y’know?” Keith sighed as he flopped back on the bed, arms out to his sides. Lance pretended not to notice when one of Keith’s hands started to fiddle with the hem of Lance’s shirt. “What about you? Are you feeling better now?”

Lance almost bit his fork in half, because he didn’t know Keith had the _audacity_ to act like his presence would just make everything peachy-keen, before he realized that wasn’t at all what he had meant. “Uh,” Lance hesitated, trying to think up a quick reply that wouldn’t sound suspicious. “Yeah, man. I just had a stress headache from all of this work, that’s all. I’m feeling alright now.” Which wasn’t _technically_ a lie. He did have a stress headache, that was just… the day before.

Keith studied him out of the corner of his eye as he hummed. “That’s good, I’m glad.” Lance grunted a response as he went back to eating, refusing to make eye contact with Keith lying behind him on his bed. “We missed you at the diner today.” Keith said then, and Lance coughed as he inhaled another bite.

Lance tried to keep his voice nonchalant in his reply, but his throat was closing up and _damnit_ if his messed up mind chose right now to start crying he was going to die of embarrassment. “Well duh, of course you missed ‘ole Lancey Lance!” He shoved another forkful of sausage in his mouth. “I’m the life of the party!” 

And Lance _prided_ himself on that. He liked being able to bring a smile to his friends’ faces. He brought life into places that were otherwise dark and quiet. He was funny and boisterous and clumsy and so what if he was the comedic relief person of the group because as long as he could make sure everyone else was happy, the joking comments and jabs didn’t matter if they hurt. He would let them tear him down if the jokes made them feel better. And realistically he knew that they never meant to be offensive, and he knew that they would drop the comments if he asked, but he saw how much it made the others laugh when the stress of finals was too much for them. Making fun of him pulled them out of their dark headspaces, let them relax, helped them feel less overwhelmed, and he was willing to continue faking smiles to keep it that way. 

But the longer it went on, the harder it was to keep his aura bright. So the less time he spent with his friends, and the more he hated himself. He hoped he wasn’t hurting them, but he was sure that even without him they could still make fun of something dumb he had said in class or something. Staying away from them, _risking_ that they would be okay instead of being there for them only made him feel worse. Which led to him being more distant.

It was a vicious cycle that Lance couldn’t get himself out of anymore.

So he forced his lips to smile and his voice just a little higher in pitch, and he pretended. And he was good at pretending, good at keeping his friends none-the-wiser. Until Keith came into his single dorm room with a box full of his favorite pancakes and lay on his bed and told Lance something _stupid_ like they _missed_ him. He was going to ruin everything. Because Lance was running thin on confidence and smiles and Keith was going to see _right through him._

“Lance.” Keith pushed himself up, looked more directly at him, and Lance jolted out of his thoughts just in time to turn away. He pretended it was just to take another bite. But the food was going cold and the taste grew bitter and bland on his tongue. He chewed slowly as Keith watched him with a frown. The last thing he needed was to throw up in front of him.

“It’s okay to not be okay.”

The comment was so out of the blue that Lance dropped his fork and turned to Keith, brows furrowed. They hadn’t been talking about that at _all_ , and Lance was sure that he had done well to act normal. His room wasn’t messy and his grades hadn’t really dropped that much and he still wore his shorts and T-shirts when it was hot so _what gives?_ “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

“But it’s okay if you aren’t.” 

Lance swallowed hard at that. He was 100% ready to get angry, to make a comment he knew Keith would fight back on until they were both angry and Keith left because Lance did not at all want to talk about this. But instead, Keith didn’t tell him he wasn’t fine, that he knew him better than Lance did, that he knew how he was feeling or any of those bullshit excuses people normally used to put words in his mouth. He didn’t do any of that and all Lance could do was sit there and stare at him. His eyes burned with unshed tears.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to, but, I’m always here to listen to you if you need me, Lance.” Lance forced himself to look away and slowly shut his to-go box, setting it on the bed next to him. He wrung his hands anxiously in his lap. “I trust you. Just, if anything ever comes up, talk to us.” He reaches out a hand and pulls Lance’s apart, squeezing gently. “Yeah?”

Lance warred with himself for a minute, then two, weighing the consequences of opening up to Keith. Because Lance _trusted_ Keith, with all of his heart, more than he should trust anyone and he didn't know how much longer he could hide it from him even if he tried because for Keith, Lance was just an open book anyway. He _wanted_ Keith to see him, to understand that he was in pain, to listen to him and maybe hold him and in the darkest part of Lance’s mind maybe Keith would sometimes kiss the top of his head. He wants his comfort, more than Hunk’s, or Pidge’s, or his sister’s or brother’s. He couldn’t ever tell his mama, because it would just break her heart to know her little boy just wanted to go to sleep sometimes and not wake up, but Keith?

Maybe it was okay if Keith knew. Only Keith, just to start with. “How did you know?”

Keith gave Lance a quick glance, and then looked over at the window instead, as if he could somehow give each other just the smallest bit of privacy. He fidgeted under Lance's gaze. “Shiro’s fiance, Adam- you remember him? Adam used to isolate himself from everyone in bad depressive episodes. He...acted like he was fine, all the time, even though he wasn’t. Shiro talked to him about it when he started going out less but he didn’t say anything. And it just...got worse.

“Adam didn’t go to therapy, or take antidepressants or anything. He just kind of pulled away from everyone, and we let him because we thought he would come to us if something was wrong - or at least to Shiro, but-” Keith cut off quickly, swallowing around a lump in his throat. His arms crossed tightly over his chest. “But he didn’t, and he- um, so when you stopped coming to our meetings I just thought- I figured maybe if I showed you we were thinking about you, you wouldn’t-”

Keith pressed his palms to the backs of his eyes hard, shaking his head. His breathing was heavy and shaky. Lance’s bottom lip trembled. Keith had never talked about Adam to Lance before, and he didn't really know him before what had happened. Keith liked to keep his memory happy.

God, he must have been so _scared_ , seeing Lance acting so similar. He didn't _know_ , he didn't. Lance wasn't suicidal. He wasn't. “I-I’m not...I’m not that bad,” he said, and Keith turned on him quick.

“Just because it’s not bad now doesn’t mean it couldn’t get bad.” Lance jerked back at the ice in his tone, and Keith’s eyes softened. He paused a moment to breathe. “I just...want you to be okay. And I’d rather get a head start on the learning-how-to-support-you thing in case things get...bad.” 

Lances rubbed some tears from his eyes, sniffled and nodded quickly. “Okay.” He could do this. He _would_ do this. For Keith, and for his friends, and for his family. And most importantly, for himself. Because he was worthy of love and respect and happiness. So he was going to try to start letting himself have it. “Okay.”

Keith reached out and took both his hands with a shaky breath. “Good,” he sighed, “good.”

For a long while they just sat there, holding each other’s hands. Lance watched the rise and fall of Keith’s chest in front of him, felt his breath on the top of his head from how close they were sitting. The silence let Lance think. He thought about what, exactly, he wanted to tell Keith, and what he wouldn’t right now. He let his mind wander to what his friends and family would do if he actually did get bad, how upset they would be, how they would cry for him and blame themselves like Keith and Shiro blamed themselves for Adam. He didn’t want that, not at all, but the longer he thought about it the more he was afraid of it because he found that he _couldn’t_ talk to Keith. 

He would open his mouth to say something, just to start _somewhere_ , but the words never came out and he closed his mouth, again and again and again. Until he was crying again.

His hands shook in Keith’s, made him pull away far enough to look at Lance, but Lance shut his eyes tight and shook his head. “I-I don’t think I can- can talk about it, Keith. Not-not now, not ri-right now, I can’t,” he gasped through his tears. 

But Keith just shushed him quietly. He pulled both of Lance’s hands to one of his, reaching up to brush his thumb over the tear tracks on Lance’s cheek. “It’s okay, you don’t have to right now, I know it was kind of short notice.” Lance sucked in a deep, steadying breath and nodded again. “Just...tell me what I could do right now to help, without you having to talk about anything.”

Lance sat for a moment, Keith’s hand on his cheek. He knew what he really wanted, what would be best to comfort him, but thinking about saying it out loud made his stomach twist and his heart flutter. But Keith was patient, and he waited quietly, running his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone as his crying slowed again, and it was his patience, his willingness to give Lance the time that he needed, that gave him the courage to speak. 

“Keith?” Keith hummed in response. When Lance finally opened his eyes, Keith smiled at him. Lance’s breath hitched. “Could you- um, I mean, can we just...lay down?”

Keith nodded, and they moved to lay together on Lance’s small twin bed, Lance’s head on Keith’s chest and Keith's body wrapped around him, surrounding him. Keith squeezed him tight, just for a couple of seconds, like he was trying to let Lance know how much he cared for him in a single gesture. 

He was scared, too. Scared that he was going to lose someone he cared about again. Scared that he wouldn’t be able to stop it. And Lance may have never had the urge to physically hurt himself but he knew that the mental abuse he had been putting himself through - because that’s what it was, _abuse_ \- could only get worse. And on the path that he had been going down alone, there was really only one end. He was so, _so_ grateful for Keith then, for checking on him, and making sure he was eating, and being so understanding that he just toppled all of Lance’s inner defences. He was still terrified that telling Keith what really went on in his head would just make him think Lance was broken, or that he wasn’t worth it, or that he was _so_ worth it that he would be willing to rat him out to his family and get him admitted to the hospital. He was scared, and Keith was scared, and he knew Shiro was probably scared too, and he briefly let himself wonder if Shiro had talked to Keith about the signs Lance was inadvertently showing, if Keith had asked him what to do to make sure he was okay.

There was so much to work through, so many wires that needed to be reprogrammed in Lance’s head to make him believe he was worth the effort, but he would get there. With Keith for now, and maybe later the rest of his friends. Maybe his family, when he got a bit better. 

But right then, Lance just clutched Keith’s soft T Shirt in his fists, lying on Keith’s chest, wrapped up in his warmth and weight and _safety_ , and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-indulgent vent fic, because I always see depressed Lance fics where he's abused or doing bad in school or in bad situations but I never see things where he's just depressed. So to make myself feel better and to remind people that you DON'T have to have tragic backstories to be depressed, I wrote this. Comments and kudos are appreciated. And I hope this makes at least one person feel better.  
> You are valid and deserving of happiness and confidence and a good life. Let yourself ask for help. Even if you think people have it worse than you do, that doesn't make you any less deserving of help. If you need to talk, I'm always available on tumblr (logical-crysis) and instagram (lixcedrin). Feel free to come to me.


End file.
